


Tangled Roots

by Zell_Hatoule



Series: Cross My Heart and Hope To Die [1]
Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Addam needs a hug, Amalthus needs to get fucked by a cactus, Characters added upon the chapter they appear, Gen, Malos needs a hug, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24780553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zell_Hatoule/pseuds/Zell_Hatoule
Summary: Failure is costly for those whom Fate sets her hands upon. Two failures, spanning centuries apart, cast shockwaves throughout Alrest, leads to the fateful meeting of a Blade and his Driver.
Series: Cross My Heart and Hope To Die [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792288
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. Tales of the Fallen Prince - World Tree, 500 Years Ago

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a 2 part story, and is a prequel to Cross My Heart and Hope to die.

They had never received his letters. No words, no kind, gentle thoughts that he held of them in the years he had traveled Tantal and Alrest had ever met their ears.

Perhaps he had made it too easy. For he had worn the clothing of the regular people whom he had fought with, changed his clothing to better honor Lora, Milton, and Hugo their losses. He glances down at the dark-colored tunic he wore, frowning at himself. His choice to blend in rather than announce his travels, to work in the quiet places where none were able to defend those that required protection had been turned against him.

It had been his fault. He had made things far too easy. Minoth, his oldest living friend past Nuncle, had  _ not  _ been at fault, though he would have much rather wished his friend had kept their unintended separation quiet. It hadn’t looked good, and even now, months after the rockfall that had nearly buried them both, the rumors had become far worse. He  _ had _ been buried alive, and if it hadn’t been for the kinder, gentler souls that had dug him free of the dirt, he would have been a very much  _ dead _ prince.

Zettar… Addam’s throat closes up, and tears burn his cheeks as they fall in the chill winds of upper Tantal. He’d  _ trusted _ his brother, ignored the nagging of his gut as it hissed to him that Zettar would  _ betray _ them. He’d wanted so badly to believe his brother could be good that he’d blinded himself to the truth.

Already, rumors had spread of a man using his likeness to garner false sympathy, bolstered by the news of his death. While he could provide proof of such a supposed truth being a lie, the widespread nature of it would make this a battle he would fight for the rest of his lifetime.

Chilled, Addam blows a breath through his fingers. Minoth had been stricken to find out that he yet lived, and despite Addam’s reassurances that it was not his fault that Zettar had been such a treacherous snake, Minoth still blamed himself.

It was that blame, the pain of it all, that had him where he was now. He had painstakingly tracked what remained of Torna through the Cloud Sea, had bypassed the Artifice defending the World Tree to dive for what remained tangled in the roots.

It had not given him closure. If anything, it had only fanned the flames of his self-resentment. The light of Torna - the greatest warrior that had apparently lived, and all he had to show for it was a legacy of failures. He snorts bitter laughter.

Lost his wife, his son, his family. His thoughts turn to darker paths, and the list only grows. Lora and Hugo, Milton. Jin and Mikhail were as good as dead, their hearts turned towards a path neither would stop walking so long as they drew breath.

Mythra. Pyra. He had destroyed them in deed and inaction alone - a heartbreaking truth that he had run from this whole time.

Had he been better, smarter, humbler,  _ wiser, _ would this have come to pass?

He may not have been king, but Addam had been trusted to act as the extension of his King’s will. That alone made his failure and absolute inability to manage his own ego a harsher blow. It might have been easier if his subjects had lopped his head clean from his shoulders. At least then, he would know his crimes were atoned for.

Head pressed against his knees, Addam weeps as the chill winds whip around him, a harsh reminder of his sins.

* * *

Morning rises cold and damp, and Addam shakes himself free of the chill to climb. He had made it to the World Tree. He climbed without pause for rest or sustenance throughout the day, unable to make weary limbs cease in their movement and action without fear of never moving again.

He would climb the World Tree, and when he met the Architect, he would  _ demand _ answers. At times, that was all that kept him going - the relentless hunger for the truth, even if said truths would shatter him.

And when he scaled the World Tree, broken and beaten and tired beyond reason, the Architect merely looked at him as lesser than a fly.

“You dare ask me for answers?” had been his words. “One as unworthy as yourself does not deserve my truths.” Addam had begged, and in the end, the Architect had snorted, taken another look at him, and cast him from the World Tree.

But Addam was not a hero - no matter how tainted the title might have been now - for nothing. He would get his answers, even if he had to scale the World Tree for the rest of his natural lifetime, however long he had left.

He owed at least that to Pyra and Mythra.

He was able to climb it twice more, both times cast out before he could speak, before he allowed himself rest, breath short as he washed up on the shore of the roots. Gaze sightless, Addam is unable to move, forced to listen to his body’s demands and hating every moment that he laid there, shamed by his own weakness.

Annoyance becomes more genuine after the fourth climb, the Architect filling the World Tree with all manner of beasts to prevent his passage. Creativity persisted, Addam seeking new methods of scaling the tree without straining himself too deeply.

Each time, the Architect scowled, and sent him away, only for him to climb again.

And again.

And again.

He is ceaseless in his efforts, and days climb the skies as nights measure his failures, Addam but a needle in a compass, heading towards true north after each attempt.

“Will you not  _ cease, _ you wretched boy?” The Architect snarls. Addam leans against his blade, breath pitiably short and aching from cracked ribs.

“Not until I get my answers,” he wheezes, wobbly arms and legs resisting his determination, screaming at him to sit down, to  _ stop _ moving.

“Until you  _ die, _ more like, wretched boy,” the Architect is not amused by him. “You push and push and  _ push, _ as though you  _ deserve _ answers. None deserve anything, and my actions - or lack thereof - are of  _ no _ import to you,  _ boy.” _

It takes but a moment for him to try to toss the warrior from the World Tree once more, but this time,  _ this _ one, Addam stands his ground, buries his blade deeply into earth and refuses to yield. The blistering power of the Architect washes over him, and he winces as it opens barely-healed wounds, gives him many new ones. But it passes, as all things do, and Addam squints blearily at the man with trembling hands ‘round his blade.

“It is important to me, when you let thousands be slaughtered without interfering,” Addam gasps, takes a shaky step forward. The look on the Architect’s face is nothing short of shock as he drags himself closer, uses his blade as a brace. “You slaughtered them.  _ Your _ actions, and lack of same, caused this massacre,” he hisses, fiercely determined, and the Architect looks as though Addam had slapped him. “What people do in  _ your _ name is as much your fault as what people do in mine, and I won’t stop until you  _ learn _ that.”

“Enough!” The man roars, faces him with fury. “What do you know of what it is to be the Architect? You are nothing but a mortal man-”

Addam will catch hell for it later, but right now, he does not care, cuts him off at the pass. “I am mortal,” he agrees. “But I also was responsible for the lives of people I cared for, and even those I did not know. I accept my responsibility to them. You  _ shun _ yours.”

“And you think death will serve your penance?” The Architect mocks, does not answer the bald-faced truth Addam had tossed into his face.

“If it makes you  _ listen, _ then yes. My death will have been worthwhile.” The look on the Architect’s face is nothing short of fury, shame mingling within the expression.

“Then a death you will be denied,” The Architect’s sudden, pleased smile is  _ nasty, _ and Addam is too weak to resist, struggles futilely within his hold when he grasps Addam by his throat. “You claim my failure to be a lack of action on my behalf. Perhaps this  _ gift _ will shut you up.”

Addam only vaguely recalls being tossed off the Tree once more.

And then -  _ pain. _


	2. Storm-Thrown Sea - Monoceros, 15 years ago.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malos is caught at his worst possible moment.

The rain is bitterly cold, whips around him as he leans on the railing, lost in thought. Another year, another failure, Malos thinks sourly. After the last Salvager had jumped, they’d hired another to keep an eye on the sea at Akhos’s recommendation. Something had happened to make the damn kid jump, and hell if Malos knew why.

Malos didn’t think it a stupid idea, contrary to what the rest of them might have thought. But hiring out a Salvager was a stupid idea when he could  _ tell _ that Mythra wouldn’t resurface for another decade, if not more. Keeping track of the vessel she was in was only wise, sure, but they didn’t need to spend on it.

But hiring a Salvager when Akhos himself could do the job without demanding funds they currently didn’t have was a  _ practical _ thing, not just him vetoing it just because. Malos growls under his breath, hand denting the railing in frustrated annoyance.

With a sigh, Malos turns away from the sea, prepares to head in.

“How like you to heap abuse against things that do not deserve it.” The oily voice makes Malos turn so fast he nearly spins himself off his feet. Blue tinged skin upon a sallow, sour face greets him, the owner garbed in expensive silks and giving him a disdainful look. Despite the rain, he appeared untouched by the elements.

_ How in the hell _ \- He can feel it now, flexing and twisting around him in vengeful glee. The bond - the goddamn bond that he’d used to keep track of his hated Driver had been  _ obscured. _ Not long - but enough for him to sneak aboard.

“Did you think I would stand idle while you plotted against me?” Amalthus asks, smiles cold and cruel, sharper than the keen edge of Jin’s katana. Malos makes to move - he’s  _ right fucking there, _ he could end this now if only -

If only he could move.

It is but a futile attempt, limbs suddenly heavy as though he had been chained to the World Tree by the roots. Panic seizes him, and he reaches for Jin, the connection to his partner rebuffed sharply by Amalthus.

“Foolish. I prepared for this, you know.” The man steps forward, and the pressure grows. Malos struggles to remain on his feet, breath coming short and quick in desperate pants as he struggles against the man.

He refused to kneel to the bastard who had caused his friend so much suffering, who had filled their bond with his hatred and cruelty, warped his perception of the world in such a way as to ruin his relationship irrevocably with the world in which he existed.

“I don’t kneel to you,” he snarls, wobbly but standing on his feet. The cold smile grows wider.

“You will,” the Indolan predicts arrogantly, another step taken.

And another.

And another.

With each step, the pressure intensifies, until all that keeps Malos standing is pure stubbornness. An explosion sounds in the distance, but Malos can’t tell where it’s coming from, forced to focus on the moment, lest he collapse at the bastard’s feet.

“I thought about letting you continue onwards with that ridiculous path of yours, but my last experiment worked well enough that I had some confidence that you could still be of use for more than just a back-up plan.” The monster muses thoughtfully. A long, spidery hand touches him, and he recoils, manages a step back.

“No,” he wheezes past the constraints of whatever the Praetor had ensnared him with. “You don’t get to own me,” Malos manages the words past his lips, and the Praetor gives him another one of his disdainful looks.

He can’t move again, knees buckling but not giving out as the man moves closer, carelessly brushes his armor aside to trace his broken Core Crystal. The touch against his fracture point  _ sears _ through him, and it nearly brings him to his knees from the pain of it. The touch intensifies, as though narrowing its focus to just his core.

“Own you? Why would I own you when  _ breaking _ you into useful pieces would be so much better?” Something in him is struggling, and dimly, past the pain, he can recognize that it is his Core Crystal, giving way to Amalthus’s touch. “A part of the Aegis as my own… I wonder if it will be more beautiful as a part of me than it ever was with you.”

Another explosion rocks the ship, yet he remains steady.

The crystal gives way, the ringing sound of it breaking covered by another explosion.

The fight is lost, Malos falling to the ground as a glittering arrow-shaped crystal plinks free, skittering across the ship. Turning away, the man follows the path of the crystal, steps towards it.

Fate intervenes, blesses him with good luck for the  _ first _ goddamn time. The explosion pitches the ship sideways, and the missing part of his Core Crystal bounces once… twice…

Splashes into the sea.

Amalthus’s rage is incandescent, but Malos knows that if he does not move now, then Amalthus will try again. His rage has made the power that had held him lapse, and Malos manages to stand, stumble away. He hits the railing, but indecision freezes him in place.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A low, beastly voice growls, hand latching onto his wrist and yanking him around. The hand returns in force, palm slapping against his Core Crystal, fracturing it again.

The world greys out, hazy color as things begin to slip from him. Terror fills his lungs, and he tries to get away from the prying fingers as it tries to scratch out his Core Crystal, take what’s left from him.

The hand is still on his wrist, still there, as though it could restrain him. Malos digs deep,  _ burns _ within with the pain of his fractured core.

Another, smaller crack echoes in the eerie silence, and Malos allows himself to unleash his power, sets the hand around his wrist ablaze.

The Praetor recoils from him, hand shoving out and sending him pitching into the sea, his Core Crystal’s fractured edges separating from him and hanging briefly in the air. Long fingers attempt to snatch it from where it falls, only to fail.

Malos hurtles down the side of the ship, and upon impact with the water, remembers no more.

* * *

There are tales of a man lost at sea. He glows with opalescent fire, the sea around him burning endlessly. Word had it there was a high bounty on his head from Indol, but after five years, the contract had been rescinded, when all Salvagers that made the attempt died, lost to the uncharted lands.

Those that did not die reported a black ship, sleekly gliding through the flames in endless search of the lost man, willing and able to fire upon those around them as though preventing others from finding their treasure.

But the ship too, one day disappeared from memory.

Until a boy with a too big heart and eyes the color of gold fished him up from the sea.


End file.
